Chapter 4: The Weight of Absence

Silence. Not the peaceful quiet of my solitary evenings, but a heavy, echoing void left by slammed doors and shattered expectations. The stir-fries sat abandoned, mocking me from the coffee table. The damp spot on the rug where Sarah’s glass had spilled felt like a stain on my soul. The kaftan—my intended shield—lay crumpled on the armchair, a symbol of failure, not foresight.

I didn’t move from the bed for a long time. The oversized sweatpants and t-shirt were armor, yes—but they also felt like a shroud, burying the version of Julie who had dared to feel comfortable, who had found a sliver of peace in her skin. Mom’s words echoed, relentless: Indecent. Shameless. Lost your mind. Dad’s silence had spoken volumes, heavy with disappointment. Sarah’s hurt, her plea—Just ... put something on—still twisted like a knife.

The humid night pressed against the windows. The city lights, once a comfort, now flickered like judgment. This place changed you, they seemed to say. Into something unrecognizable. Something is wrong.

A choked sob escaped me. The tears I’d held back during Sarah’s brief visit came now—hot, silent rivers of grief and shame. Grief for the easy closeness with my parents that now felt irrevocably broken. Grief for Sarah’s stunned, wounded expression. Shame that my private comfort had caused such pain. Shame that I hadn’t anticipated it, hadn’t protected them, hadn’t found a way to bridge the impossible gap.

My phone buzzed.

David: Heard it might have been ... eventful? You okay? Need extraction? Coffee? Silent vigil?

The simple concern—this lifeline tossed into the abyss—was almost too much. My fingers trembled as I typed back: Worse than eventful. Catastrophic. They saw. Freaked. Left. Sarah too. The world imploded.

His reply was immediate. Oof. Don’t move. Don’t set anything on fire. 15 mins.

True to his word, fifteen minutes later, a soft knock sounded. I opened the door, still swaddled in oversized clothes, my face no doubt blotchy and swollen. David took one look, stepped inside, and pulled me into a tight, wordless hug. It wasn’t romantic—it was pure, grounding human solidarity. I buried my face in his shoulder, and the dam finally broke. Great, heaving sobs racked me—the delayed released of shock, horror, and the crushing weight of my family’s rejection.

He held me in silence until the storm subsided into shaky breaths and hiccups. Then he guided me to the sofa—carefully avoiding the spill zone—and handed over a box of tissues and a large takeout cup of strong, sweet Hong Kong-style milk tea. “Okay,” he said gently, settling beside me. “Start from the beginning. The spill heard ‘round the world.”

I told him everything. The careful planning. The tense dinner. Sarah’s fumble. My instinctive, disastrous dash to the kitchen. The wet dress is clinging. The frozen horror. Mom’s strangled whisper. Dad’s averted gaze. Sarah’s stunned tears. The shouting. The accusations. My futile defense. Their departure. Sarah’s final, confused plea.

David listened intently, his expression shifting from sympathy to grim understanding. “Oof,” he breathed when I finished. “Yeah. That’s ... maximum cultural collision velocity achieved.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The underwear thing—Julie, you’ve got to know, for them, that’s not just comfort. That’s a fundamental layer of ... civilization. Modesty 101. Seeing their daughter unintentionally exposed like that—” he shook his head, “it bypassed logic and went straight to primal panic.”

“I know,” I whispered, wiping my nose. “I know that now. At the moment ... David, I just forgot. It didn’t even register. It felt as normal as breathing. How do you explain that?”

“You can’t,” he said simply. “Not yet. Not when the shock’s that fresh. Their framework doesn’t have a box labeled ‘comfortable home nudity’. The closest they’ve got is ‘breakdown’ or ‘perversion’, and right now, they’re scrambling to shove you into one of them.” He sipped his tea. “Sarah?”

“Hurt. Confused. Feels betrayed. She thinks I didn’t care about their feelings. Which ... maybe I didn’t do enough. I was so focused on my comfort, my space ... I didn’t prepare them. I didn’t warn them.” The guilt settled like lead.

“Cut yourself some slack,” David said firmly. “You didn’t plan a nude reveal. It was an accident— born out of your new normal. Should you have worn underwear to the company? Probably. However, expecting you to instantly revert to Seattle mode 24/7 in your own home while hosting isn’t fair, either. They walked into your world, Julie. They just weren’t ready for what it looked like.”

His words were a small balm, but the desolation remained. “What do I do? They’re supposed to be here for a week. The temple tomorrow...”

David sighed. “Give them space. Tonight? Nothing. Let the initial shockwave pass. Tomorrow morning, send a text. Keep it short. Apologize for the shock and distress—not for how you live, but for how they found out. Say you understand they need space. Ask if they still want to visit the temple, or if they’d prefer a guide without you.”

It felt cold. Clinical. Maybe David was right. Forcing contact now would be like pouring gasoline on the fire. “And Sarah?”

“Separate text. More personal. ‘Sarah, I’m so sorry for shocking and hurting you. I never meant to. Can we talk—just us—when you’re ready? No pressure.’ Give her the out.”

I followed his advice, my fingers trembling as I typed and sent the brief, carefully worded messages. The replies were a long time coming.

Mom: Thank you for the message. We are very upset. We need time to process. We will visit the temple alone tomorrow. We will contact you.

Dad: No reply.

Sarah: Okay. I’ll let you know. Still really confused, Jules.

The impersonal tone from Mom, the silence from Dad, and Sarah’s lingering hurt carved fresh wounds. David stayed, ordering actually edible takeout and filling the silence with harmless chatter—office gossip, a new tech launch, anything but the elephant in the room. His presence was a lifeline.

The next few days were an exercise in agonizing limbo. My phone became a source of dread. Mom sent brief, factual updates—temples, markets, food. No photos. No warmth. No mention of seeing me. Dad remained silent. Sarah didn’t reach out.

I threw myself into work. The sterile predictability of spreadsheets was a welcome refuge. At our small body image group meeting, Ling noticed the shift in me. We were discussing societal pressures around aging, but after Elise and Maria left, Ling touched my arm during a quiet moment.

“Julie? Is everything okay? You seem ... heavy.”

The kindness undid me. Tears welled up again. I gave her a heavily edited version—a family visit, cultural misunderstandings, and things said that couldn’t be unsaid. I didn’t mention the soaked dress, how the thin cotton had clung to my body, outlining what I hadn’t worn underneath. Ling, perceptive and familiar with East-West clashes, seemed to understand the shape of the conflict anyway.

“Family ... it cuts deepest,” she said softly. “Their expectations are walls we build ourselves—and then we get hurt when we bump into them.” She offered a small, sad smile. “Give them time, and be kind to yourself. Your peace matters, too.”

Her words, echoing David’s but from a different cultural perspective, resonated. My peace matters too. Could that peace coexist with my family’s fractured image of me?

David became my rock. We spent evenings at his place or mine—where I now scrupulously wore loose pajamas or loungewear when he was over—talking, watching mindless movies, sidestepping the painful subject until it inevitably surfaced. He helped me dissect their reactions, validated my feelings, but also gently pushed back against my despair. “They love you, Chin. This was a massive system shock. It might take more than a week for the dust to settle. Maybe a lot more.”

The day before their scheduled departure, my phone buzzed. Not Mom.